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* 








































TALES BY THE WAY 


A LITTLE BOOK OF ODD STORIES 


-BY- 


v/ 

WILLARD DOUGLAS COXEY. 


Author of "Zenobia : a Tragedy and " A Hypnotic Crime,” and 
Co-Author of the Anglo-Swedish Comedy, "Yon Yonson.” 


CHICAGO, ILL. 


1898. 

f 

2nd COPY, 
1898 . 



p 7 1PQQ 


% 

Yv • 



tia/o f.OF 


\ C\ ^ 








Copyright, i89S 
By W. D. COXEY. 




$ entente . 


7 . THE VILLAGE COWARD. 

2. COL. EDGERLY’S LEGACY. 

3. A CIRCUS EPISODE. 

4. ALT ABORIGINAL COQUETTE. 

5. THE LOST CREEK CLAIM. 

6. A MASQUERADE. 




Cfjc tillage ©otoartr 


RENT WEBSTER was a physical coward. 



JL He never denied it. In fact, he often 
spoke of it as something that peculiarly distin- 
guished him from the rest of mankind, and of 
which he was entitled to be proud. When the 
garrulous old veterans congregated at the store, 
and swapped stories of the Mexican war and of 
individual feats of daring, Trent listened with 
good-natured indulgence, and even smiled in a 
superior sort of way; but he never caught him- 
self mentally emulating the example of those 
battle-scarred heroes. 

When Lem Thornton came back from a sur- 
veying trip in the Rockies, and described his 
hair-raising adventures with Indians and moun- 
tain lions, Trent remarked that such things were 
all right for people who liked them, but as for 
him, he was too much of a coward ever to enjoy 
a visit to that benighted wilderness. 

Trent’s paternal great-grandfather greatly dis- 
tinguished himself in that historic affair with the 
Hessians at Trenton, and every subsequent first- 


6 


born in the direct Webster line, whether boy or 
girl, had been burdened with the name of Tren- 
ton. It was patriotically presumed to serve the 
two-fold purpose of preserving the fame of the 
Revolutionary ancestor of the family, and of be- 
stowing a legacy of intrepidity upon the pos- 
sessor. The latest heir to the name was free to 
admit that in his case the charm had apparently 
been broken. 

* ‘Why, the world never produced a bigger 
coward than I am,” he would say. “Fm actually 
afraid of my own shadow.” 

When Trent was an infant in arms, a nurse 
with a hooked nose frightened him into convul- 
sions, and he never saw a hooked nose after that 
without having an irresistible desire to hide 
away from it. A caterpillar drove him into 
spasms of fright, and he could never overcome a 
fear and dislike for the feline pets that found 
their way into the Webster domicile. 

He was constantly in fear of an accident ; the 
buildings that lined the main street were, in his 
fearful imagination, always on the verge of 
tumbling into ruins ; if a railroad train carried 
him safely to his destination, it was an unex- 
pected blessing and a special providence of 
heaven ; and he never crossed a bridge without 
wondering how long it would take to reach the 
water after the structure collapsed. 

The only girl Trent ever really cared for broke 


7 


E¥ W^ge toward. 

the engagement because he ran away and left 
her to face an infuriated bull, encountered dur- 
ing an afternoon stroll in a neighboring clover 
field. Once, when he conspired with another 
boy to wallop the town bully, he let his ally 
open hostilities and get thrashed without raising 
a finger to help him. His only excuse was that 
he was afraid. 

So, when the newspapers began to be filled 
with exciting stories of war, and the sleepy vil- 
lage where Trent lived awoke from its lethargy 
and contributed its share to the war-fever and 
the general unrest, and held mass-meetings in 
the village hall, and passed resolutions tender- 
ing the patriotic services of the community to 
sustain the flag, Trent Webster was nowise in 
evidence. He was at home, in a tumult of ap- 
prehension over the possibility of being drafted. 
He shivered at the mere thought of standing up 
with a lot of other human ten-pins, to be bowled 
over by the cannon balls of the enemy. 

1 ‘Snack” Bilkins, the patriot who presided 
over the lunch stand next to the post-office, 
offered an amendment to the resolutions, “ex- 
cepting” Trent Webster, but the chair refused 
to entertain it. 

“When we offered the services of this com- 
munity in the glorious cause of American honor,” 
the chairman remarked, subsequently, “we 
meant just exactly what we said — the entire 


8 


community. Trent Webster doesn’t count.” 

Events moved on apace, the excitement grew, 
the headlines in the newspapers were more rabid 
every day ; and one morning a recruiting officer 
came to town, and after a consultation with the 
mayor, opened quarters in the engine house. 
Then he hung out the stars and stripes, and the 
word went around that the village patriots were 
at last to be afforded an opportunity to enlist. 

It was nine o’clock when the recruiting office 
was opened. The mayor looked out and saw a 
crowd of men and boys around the porch at 
Donaghy’s store, but there were only three men 
in line outside the military headquarters. The 
first to cross the threshold was Trent Webster. 

The mayor looked at him with mild interest. 

“What brings you around here, Trent?” he 
asked. 

Trent looked up, the picture of misery. 

“I — I came to enlist,” he faltered. 

Astonishment beamed in the mayor’s eyes. 

“Enlist?” he exclaimed. “What on earth you 
talking about, Trent Webster?” 

“Well, that’s correct,” persisted Trent. 

The mayor whistled. 

“Why — er — Trent, you’re not a — er — a fight- 
ing man. I’ve always understood ” 

“You’ve always understood that I was the 
worst coward in the place. Don’t be afraid to 
say it, your honor. You won’t hurt my feelings 


9 


fglft fillage toward. 

any. I know I’m a miserable, sneaking coward, 
just as well as you do.” 

“Then, what on earth are you ’listing for?” 

“’Pon my soul, I don’t know. I’m frightened 
pretty near to death already, but I can’t help 
myself. Something keeps hammering away at 
me to do it.” 

In less than thirty minutes everybody in the 
village knew that Trent Webster had been the 
first man to enlist, but nobody — not even his 
own people — had any disposition to magnify him 
into a hero. 

“Bah,” snorted “Snack” Bilkins when he 
heard of it; “he’ll run the minute he smells 
burnt powder.” 

This was the universal opinion, and “Snack” 
could have made the same observation to Trent 
without arousing his resentment. Trent had not 
the faintest doubt but that he would drop dead 
from fear the moment the first shot was fired. 

The nation’s affairs were pressing ; there was 
little time for drilling the raw recruits, and in a 
few weeks Trent found himself at the front, with 
a gun in his hand, and the ever-present dread of 
the inevitable first battle oppressing him like a 
nightmare. 

His first experience under fire was in a skir- 
mish. He had an indistinct idea that there was an 
enemy somewhere in front, that he was expected 
to discharge his rifle at that enemy, and that if 


10 


gxkx % the 

he ran away he would be shot in the back and 
branded as a “skulker.” He remembered firing 
once as if by accident, and looking up into the 
foliage in a dazed way to see whether he had hit 
any of the leaves : then something whizzed past 
his head, and he heard the man behind him cry 
out in pain. Then Trent’s knees collapsed, and 
he tumbled on the grass in a heap. 

When the skirmishing party came back, vic- 
torious, Trent was leaning against a tree, feeling 
his trembling limbs for evidences of bullet 
wounds, and looking utterly lost and miserable. 
That night in camp the captain rated him for 
his cowardice. Trent hung his head in shame, 
and made no attempt to defend himself. 

“It’s true,” he said, scarcely above a whisper, 
“it’s true — I’m a contemptible coward!” 

Two days later occurred one of those big bat- 
tles in which so many went down on either side, 
and in which victory was purchased by the death 
of thousands of brave soldiers. There was one 
charge that will go down in history, and Trent 
was in the front rank. 

Streams of lead engulfed the line ; but on it 
went, sweeping like an avalanche over the en- 
emy’s works. Trent was carried forward in a 
delirious maze. The cowardly legs that threat- 
ened to sink under him when he caught the first 
glimpse of those frowning guns, belching fire, 
suddenly became strong and brave. The bullets 


§f(e Village §ow,'ird. » 

sang in his ears. Men fell all around him, and 
he scarcely noticed them. Once he stood alone, 
with a gap of dead on either side, but he was 
not afraid. He dimly wondered at it, and tried 
to run a race with the rest of the line. 

He loaded and fired like an automaton. There 
was a buzzing in his ears ; his face was unnatur- 
ally flushed and hot; a madness seemed to take 
possession of his senses and deprive him of the 
faculty of reasoning. He yelled, and no sound 
came to his ears. He shook his fist at the enemy, 
and swore great oaths, and dimly wondered how 
that could be, when in all his life before he had 
never blasphemed. He was no longer Trent 
Webster, the village coward, but a demon, 
locked in a human machine, trying to break 
loose and to scatter death and misery and de- 
struction among other machines masquerading 
in the garb of men. 

Over the parapet he went with the human 
stream — over the guns — over the dead gunners, 
into the powder-clouds where the flying figures 
melted into the smoke. A frenzied face looked 
up at him from a mass of human debris, and the 
stock of his weapon turned the look of frenzy in- 
to the dull stare of death. A quivering hand 
caught at his leg with a drowning clutch, and 
the demon in Trent’s breast gloated as he drove 
his bayonet into the heart of the poor wretch. 
A boy with the features of a woman cried for 


12 


mercy as he held up the stump of what had been 
an arm. He was swept under foot and his white 
face ground under the heel of the maddened sol- 
dier. An officer struggled out of a mound of 
mangled human flesh, and snapped his pistol at 
the captain. Trent’s rifle cracked, and the offi- 
cer’s brains spattered him with a crimson shower. 
The muscles of a dead man relaxed and made 
the dead limbs move with a horrible resemblance 
to life. Trent sprang at the corpse like a fam- 
ished vulture. 

Oh! how he laughed — how he shouted! What 
blistering imprecations he hurled after the en- 
emy! Was there ever in all the world such ex- 
hilaration as this? Swish — swish — bing — bang! 
Death everywhere! Everything crimson-red with 
the blood of friend and foe! Fire — brimstone — 
death — hell! Hoopla! 

A sudden dimness blurred Trent’s eyes. In a 
mechanical way he reached up and felt his fore- 
head. He looked at his hand ; it was covered 
with blood ; there was a gaping wound over his 
eyes. The discovery made him weak, but he 
struggled on. The line was passing him. His 
head reeled, and that miserable weakness in the 
legs seized him again. Down he went, an inert 
heap. 

That was the last Trent knew until he revived 
in the field hospital. The captain was leaning 


i3 


§f(c fillage Reward. 

over him. Trent tried to speak, but the captain 
motioned for him to keep still. 

“You must n’t talk,” he said ; “I understand. 
You fought like a hero. I take back the hard 
things I said to you after that skirmish. You’re 
a brave fellow, Webster.” 

Trent shook his head. 

“No, no,” he mumbled, “I’m nothing but a 
coward — a miserable, skulking coward. I — I 
forgot myself, that’s all.” 


©ol. (^trgcrlg's Hegacs 


HINGS went all right with Uncle Eph and 



I Aunt Sally until Melindy married. Melindy 
was kitched girl over at Major Edgerly’s, and 
between what she managed to fetch away from 
the “big house,” and Uncle Eph’s intermittent 
chores, there had never been any dearth of cold 
shoat and hot corn pone. 

What made Melindy take a fancy to a raw- 
boned, lazy “niggah” like Sam Carter was more 
than anyone could understand. As Aunt Sally 
always said, “Sam wahn’t no good, nohow,” and 
his unwelcome advent into the family made an 
extra mouth to feed without any corresponding 
increase in the revenue. 

For Sam was lazy. Aunt ’Liza Carter used to 
say he was “too lazy to eat.” But that was an 
exaggeration. Sam never missed his meals. He 
divided his time between eating, sleeping and 
taking sun-baths on the river bank. Then he 
took down with the ague, and Melindy had to 
stay home and wait on him. 


§ol gdgerlg'B gegacg. .5 

Uncle Eph was in despair. He was getting 
old, and when it came to hustling for odd jobs 
he could not compete with the younger “boys.” 
When Melindy had been married a year matters 
were looking pretty blue for Uncle Eph and 
Aunt Sally. Melindy was sick, Melindy’s hus- 
band was still shaking, and Uncle Eph talked 
disconsolately about “goin’ t’ de po’ house.” 

“Ain’ dah nuffin yo’ all kin sell?” Aunt Sally . 
asked. 

“Dunno,” he replied, “dunno, ’les’ it am de 
ol’ white hoss. ” 

The white horse was the last gift of Uncle 
Eph’s old master, the late Col. Edgerly. Many 
a time Uncle Eph had looked at the gaunt, half- 
fed animal, and sighed. 

“’Pears like et ought t’ bin a mule,” he would 
say. 

And when Aunt Sally would reproach him for 
“lookin’ a gift hoss in de mouf,” he would only 
sigh the deeper, and say : 

“Well, ’t aint natchal fo’ no niggah t’ keep a 
hoss w’en dey’s so many mules in the worl’.” 

In time, however, there grew up between Un- 
cle Eph and the horse a kind of mutual respect 
and interdependence — sometimes he half be- 
lieved the old white horse was a mule masquer- 
ading in short ears, and the fancy afforded him 
a certain kind of satisfaction. So the thought 
of parting with old Dave filled Uncle Eph’s cup 


-6 |p/«; bu the ffag. 

of bitterness to overflowing. But there was no 
help for it. Starvation stared him in the face, 
and the horse was his only marketable posses- 
sion. 

Uncle Eph’s face had a drawn look when he 
started toward town with Old Dave. Aunt Sally 
stood at the door, looking after him, and wiping 
the tears out of her eyes with the corner of her 
apron. 

“Dat’s de ha’dest t’ing Ephraim Johnson ebba 
had t’ do in all de days ob his life,” she said. 

Uncle Eph rode to town and took his stand 
near the market place. Old Dave had descended 
so low in the world that he did not even have a 
halter, and Uncle Eph stood on the curbstone 
and held the horse by a rope looped around the 
animal’s scrawny neck. One of the boys in the 
butcher’s shop knew Uncle Eph, and volun- 
teered to make him a sign. The boy disappeared, 
and in a little while came back with a piece of 
wrapping paper, on which he had facetiously 
printed the words, “For Sail.” Uncle Eph was 
profuse in his thanks, and tied the sign over Old 
Dave’s eyes. The old horse did not care. He 
was stone blind long before Col. Edgerly went 
to his fathers. 

Waiting for a customer was slow business. 
Uncle Eph’s legs began to ache, and he sat down 
on the curbstone to rest. Old Dave became 
restless, too, after a while, and Uncle Eph held 


§ol. gdgerlii's %ctjuoi. .? 

the rope with a firmer grip, and spoke reprov- 
ingly to the horse. 

Several times, when groups of curious school- 
boys gathered around, they spoke slightingly of 
Old Dave, and made unpleasant remarks about 
the unorthographic sign and the prominence of 
Old Dave’s ribs. 

Uncle Eph endured it all good-naturedly un- 
til one of the boys threw a potato at Old Dave 
and hit the horse on the flank. Then he lost 
his temper. 

“Go ’long deh, yo’ po’ mis’able tool ob de 
debbil,” he exclaimed, wrathfully. 

Uncle Eph’s righteous anger was hardly cooled 
when a tall man in a slouch hat and top-boots 
touched him on the shoulder. 

“What yer doin’ with that hoss?” the man 
asked. 

“Nuffin, boss — on’y tryin’ t’ sell ’im.” 

“Got a license for sellin’ hosses?” 

Uncle Eph looked frightened. 

“Dunno, boss. Does yo’ all hab t’ git a 
license t’ sell a hoss?” 

“I reckon, yes. It’s vendin’, ain’t it?” 

“Dunno, boss.” 

“Well, that’s what I ’low it to be; so you’ll 
have to move on.” 

“Yas, seh — all righ’, boss. A’m done goin’.” 

Uncle Eph’s voice was very humble, and there 
was a big lump in his throat. 


is Ip/w bn the iVun. 

Leading Old Dave by the rope, he turned his 
face homeward. The horse was acting strangely, 
but Uncle Eph was too greatly worried to notice 
it. Old Dave staggered on his pipestem legs, 
and his head wabbled in a way altogether un- 
usual with well-behaved horses. Then he came 
to a dead stop, and Uncle Eph was aroused from 
his melancholy reflections by a violent jerk at 
the rope. 

He looked at Old Dave in surprise. 

“Wha’ de debbil’s de mattah wif dat oF lioss?” 
he muttered. 

Old Dave rolled his hide into a thousand ridges, 
stood shivering for a moment, and then stretched 
his length in the street. In an instant Uncle 
Eph was at Old Dave’s head, trying to get him 
upon his feet. Old Dave made one feeble effort 
to rise, opened his jaws in a final struggle for 
breath, indulged in another violent shiver, and 
then lay very still. 

Uncle Eph was dazed. He looked up in a 
helpless way, and saw a crowd of men and boys 
congregating on the sidewalk. Several men 
came out into the road, and one of them asked 
him what was the matter with the horse. 

“Dunno,” answered Uncle Eph, looking at 
the prostrate animal reproachfully ; “lie nebba 
did ac’ like dis befo’.” 

The inquisitive man gave Old Dave a kick. 

“The critter’s dead all right,” he said. 


i9 


§ol. gdgcrb's ^iro. 

Uncle Eph looked sorrowfully down at the old 
horse. There were tears in the old man’s eyes. 

“’Pears like eberyting’s agen me,” he mut- 
tered. 

“What you goin’ to do with it?” inquired the 
inquisitive man. 

“Dunno, boss.” 

“Got any money?” 

“No, boss.” 

“I’d just leave it here, then — the town’ll look 
after it.” 

Uncle Eph cast a last reproachful look at Old 
Dave. Then he shuffled away, leaving the dead 
horse to the care of the marshal and the health 
board. 

The journey home was toilsome and full of 
bitter reflections for Uncle Eph. There was a 
woe-begone look on his face when he approached 
the shanty, but Aunt Sally met him at the door, 
all smiles. 

“Say, Ephraim,” she called, before he had 
fairly crossed the clearing, “come yander, quick. 
Dah’s bin grea’ doin’s in dis yere house t’- 
day.” 

Uncle Eph wearily approached the door. 

“Wha’ ’s happened?” 

“Wha’ ’s happened? Why, sakes alive, nig- 
gah, ain’ yo’ got no ’spection ’bout yo’ ’t all?” 

“Dunno.” 

“Den I done tole yo’. Melindy’s done gone 


20 


an’ got a de’ lilla baby boy ; an’ yo’ ’s a shu’ nuff 
gran’daddy, Ephraim Johnson — yo’ ’s a shu’ nuff 
gran’daddy.” 

Uncle Eph never smiled. He could not get 
the thought of Old Dave out of his mind. 

“De hoss am dead,” he said, simply. 

A look of scorn came into Aunt Sally’s eyes. 

“What ’f I got t’ do wif dead hosses on a ’ca- 
sion like dis yere?” she exclaimed. “Ain’ yo’ 
’shamed o’ yo’se’f t’ talk ’bout dead hosses w’en 
yo’ own flesh an’ blood am in yander wif one ob 
de bressedest lilla pickaninnies dat eber breaved 
de bref o’ life! Ain’ yo’ shamed o’ yo’ se’f — ain’ 
yo’ shamed o’ yo’se’f !” 

With this parting thrust, Aunt Sally went 
bustling back into the shanty, and Uncle Eph sat 
down on an inverted tub and fell to thinking 
harder than ever. 

Presently Aunt Sally’s querulous voice came 
floating through the doorway. 

“Ephraim Johnson,” she called, “ain’ yo’ 
cornin’ in t’ see yo’ bressed gran’chile?” 

Uncle Eph made no reply, but his gaze wan- 
dered out to the road and across to where the 
golden tassels of Major Edgerly’s corn were wav- 
ing in the breeze. 

Aunt Sally came to the door. 

“What yo’ all done lookin’ at, Ephraim?” she 
asked. 

The old man’s face lighted up a little. 


21 


§ol. gdgerlgs gegncg. 

“I was jes’ a-thinkin’,” he said, slowly, “I was 
jes’ a-thinkin’ dat Majah Edgerly’s folks nebba 
would miss a few ob dem roastin’ y’eahs.” 

Aunt Sally stole back into the shanty again. 

“I reckon t’ings is a-goin t’ be all right,” she 
said to Melindy ; “yo’ daddy’s cornin’ ’roun’.” 

And just then Uncle Eph came shuffling in, 
with the light still lingering in his eyes. 


& Circus Cfusofcc 


HERE was great excitement in the office of 



I the honorable mayor of Lost Creek. His 
honor had just received a telegram (collect) from 
the chief of police of Harrisburg, notifying him 
to be on the lookout for a couple of suspected 
confidence men who, according to the advices of 
the Harrisburg official, were then en route for 
his honor’s bailiwick. The alleged sharpers, the 
chief wired, had attempted to swindle several 
Harrisburg business houses, in addition to the 
leading hotel, by claiming to be agents for the 
World’s Greatest Circus, but they had been 
scared away before fleecing anybody on the 
strength of their “bogus” contracts. 

The mayor instantly dispatched a messenger 
for Tom Samuels, the town marshal, and on the 
arrival of the latter, showed him the telegram. 
The marshal was all attention in a moment. He 
had read the life and adventures of the famous 
Vidocq, and Dupin and Sherlock Holmes were 
his particular heroes. He had a vast ambition 
to rival the noted sleuths of the big cities, and 


23 


S @irctts fyiaoth. 

he had arrived at such a theoretical state of per- 
fection in the art of detection that he could fur- 
nish a plan of procedure for any hypothetical 
case at a moment’s notice. 

Hitherto the marshal’s deeds of official daring 
had been restricted to the arrest of vagrants and 
serving an occasional capias on an impecunious 
debtor. Here, however, was a genuine city case 
— a case fraught with infinite possibilities, in 
which the marshal could distinctly foresee the 
distinction for which he had worked and dreamed 
so long. He was, however, too astute to betray 
his emotions to the mayor, in whose eyes he was 
a veritable tower of official conservatism ; and so 
he merely puckered his lips, and ruffled his fore- 
head, and plunged his official hands in his offi- 
cial pockets, and remarked with great acumen : 

“This is a case that ’ll require handlin’, your 
honor — very k-e-e-r-ful handlin’.” 

The mayor opined that it would ; and, having 
agreed on this essential point, the mayor mildly 
inquired what, in the judgment of the marshal, 
was the proper method of procedure. It so hap- 
pened that in the fertile mind of the marshal a 
plan of campaign had already developed. 

“I trust your honor ’ll leave this matter en- 
tirely in my hands,” he responded. “When 
I’ve completed the job” (his voice dwelt linger- 
ingly on the word “job”) “I’ll report to you 
in full.” 


24 


“Just as you like — just as you like,” acquiesced 
the mayor. 

His honor had great faith in the marshal. 
Perhaps he had some hankerings after Vidocqism 
himself, for he added, hesitatingly : 

“Now, if you should happen to need any 
assistance 

“I was just goin’ to speak to you about that,” 
broke in the marshal. 

The mayor looked gratified. 

“I want your official sanction to hire an assist- 
ant,” continued the marshal. 

The mayor’s countenance fell. 

“What ’ll it cost?” he asked, doubtfully. 

“Oh, a dollar or so.” 

“All right ; but” — and his honor tried to look 
severe — “no extravagance, Mr. Samuels — no 
extravagance.” 

The marshal hurried up-town on a trot. He 
did not stop until he reached the office of the 
Lost Creek Weekly Courier . The editor was out 
of town, and the foreman was cleaning-up in an- 
ticipation of beginning work on the next week’s 
issue. 

The foreman was locally known by the name 
of Edwin Forrest Thatcher. He was a young 
man with a theatrical physiognomy and a tragedy 
stride, and he had come to town with a reper- 
toire show that had succumbed to bad business 
and an obdurate landlord. Thatcher was the 


25 


only member of the unfortunate organization 
who possessed a trade, and he readily “caught 
on” as compositor in the Weekly Courier office. 
After three weeks’ service he had been advanced 
to the position of foreman, and was considered 
on the high road to reformation and entitled to 
a probationary measure of public respect. 

It was to this histrionic printer that the mar- 
shal looked for assistance in his role of detective. 

“Them fellows,” ruminated the marshal, 
“might fool me, but Thatcher knows all about 
troupes, and he can tell whether they be show 
folks or not.” 

Thatcher jumped at the proposition to play de- 
tective in real life. It did not require the retain- 
ing fee to arouse his enthusiasm. He had played 
Hawkshaw “on the boards,” and he was eager 
to go to his boarding-house at once and don his 
stage make-up. The marshal, however, discoun- 
tenanced anything theatrical. 

“It isn’t necessary,” he said. “What we want 
to do is to kind of mix-up with ’em, and then, 
when we’ve got our evidence, we can run ’em in.” 

The next train from Harrisburg was not due 
at Lost Creek until after six o’clock, and it was 
impossible for the suspected crooks to arrive be- 
fore that time. The marshal suggested that, 
after supper, in the event of the suspects arriv- 
ing according to schedule, Thatcher should drop 
around to the hotel and “scrape acquaintance” 


26 


§ales htj the $$ag. 

with the 1 ‘bogus” circus agents. When every- 
thing was well-primed the marshal would arrive 
on the scene and fire the mine. 

When Joe Farrell and his assistant, Jerry 
Williams, agents for the World’s Greatest Circus, 
alighted from the train at Lost Creek that even- 
ing, they had no intimation of the reception that 
was awaiting them. If they kept a sharp look- 
out for suspicious indications, it was not because 
they were afraid of complications with the town 
authorities. Their uneasiness, which was seen 
and remarked by the marshal and his assistant, 
was occasioned by a far different cause. The 
circus with which they were connected had en- 
countered a considerable degree of “opposition” 
all along the route, and it had been a constant 
battle of wits and agility to see who would get 
into the towns first and secure the choice of bill- 
board lots and preliminary “billing.” In Har- 
risburg they had only made “optional” contracts, 
in order to “take-up the town” in the event of 
the Great Western show getting in there ahead 
of the “World’s Greatest,” and it was this pecu- 
liar method of doing business that had excited 
the suspicions of the chief of police. The ab- 
sence of any evidences of the “opposition” in 
Lost Creek was encouraging. 

“I guess we’ve got a ‘cinch’ here all right,” 
Farrell remarked, as they rode up town without 
discovering any new bill-boards. 


27 


The ’bus driver waited until the agents had 
registered, and then “struck” them for their 
fares. Farrell took the ’bus man aside, and in 
a mysterious whisper told him it was “all right” 
— they wanted to hire a lot of “rigs,” and would 
“square it” with the liveryman later. The driver 
was satisfied, and promised to send his “boss” 
around to the hotel after supper. 

When the circus men came out of the dining 
room Thatcher was on hand, and he approached 
them with an insinuating smile. 

“You’re the agents for the show, are n’t you?” 
he asked. 

Farrell merely inclined his head. He was sus- 
picious of everybody in a new town. 

“My name’s Thatcher,” continued the actor- 
printer. “I’ve just closed with the Dewdrop 
Comedy Company, and I’m resting here. Heard 
you were here ahead of the show, and thought 
I’d like to meet you.” 

Farrell unbent a little and accepted Thatcher’s 
proffered hand. Williams followed the example 
of his chief. Thatcher produced cigars, and the 
trio sauntered out to the hotel verandah and sat 
down. 

“Everybody’s talking about the show coming,” 
said Thatcher. “What’s your date here?” 

If there was any one subject upon which Far- 
rell was uncommunicative it was the route and 
unadvertised dates of the show. Even when he 


2% §ales by the $Vut>. 

and Williams were “contracting a town” they 
refrained from disclosing the date until it was 
absolutely necessary. No one ever heard from 
their lips the name of the previous day’s town 
or the next “stand” on the route. This was a 
subject upon which no amount of curiosity or 
inquiry could ever elicit any information. Con- 
sequently, Thatcher’s question had the effect of 
arousing Farrell’s resentment. He did not reply, 
and Thatcher repeated the query. 

This time Farrell answered brusqely : 

“I don’t know.” 

“That’s suspicious,” thought Thatcher, but 
he kept his conclusions to himself, and led the 
conversation into a more general channel. Sud- 
denly he asked : 

“Where do you go to from here?” 

This time Williams was the one addressed. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “We never know,” 
he added ; “we get our orders each day for the 
next town.” 

“Where does the show come from?” persisted 
Thatcher. 

Farrell had left the group and gone inside to 
inquire for a telegram. Williams ignored the 
last question and followed his chief. 

“How do you size-up that ‘guy’?” he asked, 
in an undertone. 

Farrell threw a quick glance through the door 


J ' <&ircus Episode. 29 

at Thatcher, and replied in the same guarded 
way : 

‘‘I’ll bet a hundred to one he’s one of the 
agents of the Great Western show.” 

“That’s just my guess,” said Williams. “He’s 
playing ‘foxy,’ and trying to ‘con’ the route out 
of us.” 

Farrell smiled grimly. 

“He’s welcome to all the information he can 
get,” he said. 

When the two agents returned to the verandah 
they were on their guard, and Thatcher found 
them even more noncommittal than before. In 
the meantime, Thatcher’s brain had been busy 
weaving a chain of circumstantial evidence 
around the “imposters.” Their evasive replies, 
and now their apparent air of distrust and uneasi- 
ness, were undoubtedly evidences of guilt. As 
soon as possible, Thatcher broke away from the 
agents, and started in quest of the marshal. He 
found that astute official secreted around the 
corner, and awaiting with some impatience for 
his associate’s report. 

“We’ve got them,” Thatcher excitedly ex- 
claimed as he came up to the marshal. “They ’re 
crooks, just as sure as you ’re born. They don’t 
know where the show goes from here, and they 
can’t even tell where it comes from. Why, it’s 
a ‘cinch’!” 

The marshal was disposed to be cautious. 


3o 


§nles % the ^ui). 

“I’d better have a talk with ’em myself,” he 
said. “It would n’t do to run in innocent par- 
ties.” 

The marshal accompanied Thatcher back to 
the hotel. Farrell and his assistant were still 
sitting on the verandah, smoking. Thatcher in- 
troduced the marshal as a friend from Chicago, 
collecting for a reaper house. The two agents 
exchanged significant glances. Another man 
from the “opposition gang.” Thatcher took 
Farrell in hand, and the marshal made himself 
agreeable to Williams. Whenever an opportu- 
nity offered they asked a leading question about 
the show. In the opinion of the marshal and 
his companion their evasive replies were more 
than compromising. They were conclusive evi- 
dence of guilt. 

Suddenly the marshal’s demeanor changed. 
His urbane loquacity was succeeded by a freez- 
ing official dignity. He arose to his feet. So did 
Thatcher. The two circus men looked up with 
mild curiosity. 

The marshal had come prepared to deal with 
desperate criminals. He placed a hand on his 
hip pocket in a significant way, and nodded up 
the street. 

“We want you fellows to take a little walk 
with us,” he said. 

Farrell looked bored. 

“Where to?” he asked. 


S §irms fyisodc. * 

‘‘The mayor’s office.” 

“The mayor’s office? What for?” 

“You ’ll find out when you get there.” 

Farrell’s ire was rapidly rising. 

“I guess you ’d better count us out!” he ex- 
claimed. “We ’ve got no business with the 
mayor to-night — it ’ll be time enough to see him 
to-morrow morning when we take out the li- 
cense.” 

The marshal summoned all his official asser- 
tiveness. 

“You ’ll go right now!” he declared. 

The circus men angrily sprang to their feet. 
The marshal threw back his coat, and displayed 
a nickel badge with the insignia of his office em- 
bossed in black letters in the centre. 

“The marshal!” exclaimed the suspects, in 
unison. 

“Yes, I’m the marshal, and you’d better come 
along quiet, and save trouble.” 

“You don’t mean to say that we ’re under ar- 
rest?” asked Farrell. 

“I reckon you be.” 

“What’s the charge?” 

“Swindlin’.” 

“Swindling? Swindling who?” 

“Oh, come now — don’t play innocent. Your 
jig’s up, and you might just as well acknowledge 
it.” 

“Well, I’ll be blowed!” Farrell exclaimed, 


32 


§ahn by the 

with a look of consternation at Williams. “If 
this is n’t the worst that ever happened, then 
I’m a ‘rube.’ These people have got mixed in 
their dates somehow ; but it’s no use trying to 
explain matters here. We may as well go along 
with them.” 

Meanwhile the marshal and Thatcher had held 
a whispered conference, and had decided that it 
would be safer to incarcerate the prisoners in 
the calaboose than to take them to the mayor’s 
office first. Thatcher walked on one side and 
the marshal on the other, and the circus men 
were hurried away to the lock-up. News spreads 
quickly in a country town, and an excited crowd 
of men and boys followed them. The marshal 
hustled the prisoners into the calaboose with a 
broad grin of satisfaction on his face, and care- 
fully padlocked the door. Then he and Thatcher 
hurried away to find the mayor. 

In less than twenty minutes they returned 
with his honor. During the walk to the cala- 
boose the marshal and his aid had related the 
incidents of the capture. The mayor unhesi- 
tatingly pronounced it a triumph of strategy. 

“You ’ll make your mark yet, Mr. Samuels,” 
he said, as they approached the timber-walled 
lock-up. 

“Stand up,” commanded the marshal, as the 
official party entered. 

The prisoners obeyed. 


33 


“What have you fellows got to say for your- 
selves?” asked the mayor, in a voice that trem- 
bled with ill-repressed emotion. 

Farrell acted as spokesman. 

“All I can say is that this is a contemptible 
outrage!” he exclaimed, loudly. 

“H’m. What’s your business?” 

“Agents for the World’s Greatest Circus.” 

The marshal broke in. 

“Pretty agents! — don’t even know where the 
show comes from.” 

Notwithstanding their awkward predicament, 
both agents laughed. 

“I understand the whole thing now,” Farrell 
cried. “It’s all a mistake. We took you for 
agents of another show, trying to ‘pump’ us, and 
you thought because we did n’t ‘cough-up’ any 
pointers we were crooks. It’s a regular Comedy 
of Errors. I don’t blame you much,” he added 
diplomatically, turning to the marshal; “I sup- 
pose we did act rather suspiciously.” 

The marshal whispered to the mayor : 

“Slick, ain’t they?” 

To Farrell he said : 

“That won’t work ; you can’t bamboozle me 
that way. I’ve been in this business too long 
to have the wool pulled over my eyes as easily 
as all that.” 

Farrell turned to the mayor. 

“Your honor is too intelligent a man to keep 


34 


§alcs Iw the f 

a couple of innocent people in a place like this 
all night,” he said, insinuatingly. “Besides,” 
he added, “we can easily prove our identity.” 

Farrell took out his pocketbook and displayed 
its contents. 

“Here are any number of railroad passes, con- 
tracts, letters and other papers which we could 
not possibly have unless we were connected with 
the show.” 

The mayor was evidently more than half con- 
vinced. 

“Why,” he said, “this certainly does look 
reasonable.” 

The marshal drew him aside. 

“H’st, your honor,” he whispered, “that’s 
part of the trick. They ’ve stolen those things 
somewhere.” 

The look of severity on the mayor’s face re- 
turned. 

“All that does n’t amount to anything,” he de- 
clared. “In fact, in my opinion, it’s only an- 
other proof of your culpability.” 

The marshal nodded assent, but Farrell swore 
inwardly. 

“Well,” he declared, desperately, “you can at 
least wire to the show and ask for a description 
of their agents.” 

“It’s too late now. There’s no night office 
here. Come, marshal,” turning to that worthy, 
“we’ll hold the prisoners without bail for a hear- 


35 


& ^ircus fyisock. 

ing to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, sharp. 
Mr. Thatcher, you are hereby summonsed to 
appear as principal witness for the prosecution.” 

The mayor’s party then filed out, the padlock 
clicked, and the prisoners were once more alone. 

“This certainly beats the Dutch,” growled 
Farrell. “But,” he continued angrily, “if they 
think they can keep me in this black hole all 
night they ’re badly fooled.” 

It was now quite dark, and the only light in 
the calaboose came through the barred window 
from an oil-lamp in the street. 

The feeble light drew Farrell’s attention to the 
window, and he groped his way across the floor 
and seized one of the bars. It was old and badly- 
rusted, and bent under his muscular fingers. 

“Hurrah!” he exclaimed, “the ‘jays’ haven’t 
thought of the window. The iron bars are like 
punk.” 

Williams, who had been watching his com- 
panion as well as the dim light would permit, 
approached the window. 

“This is dead easy,” he said, as he fingered 
the twisted iron; “we can be out of here, and 
back to Harrisburg before they know we ’ve got 
away. ” 

“There’s a passenger due here at ten o’clock,” 
said Farrell. “We’d better stay here until nearly 
train-time. The town ’ll be asleep before that. 
We can get on the train from the opposite side 


36 


of the station without being seen, even if the 
marshal should happen to be nosing about.” 

An hour later, when the train went east, the 
circus men were aboard. As the train pulled 
out, they caught a glimpse of the marshal on 
the station platform, twirling his club, and look- 
ing complacent. 

“He ’ll be considerably surprised when he 
goes over to the calaboose in the morning and 
finds his jail-birds missing,” said Farrell, with a 
laugh. 

“But not half so much surprised as the show 
’ll be when they discover that we have n’t made 
the town.” 

“Oh — we’ll fix that. We’ll wire that the 
license could n’t be Squared,’ and that we had 
to cut it out.” 

As soon as they reached Harrisburg theywdred 
the show for instructions. Then they went to 
the hotel and tumbled into bed, thoroughly con- 
vinced that they were the heroes of the greatest 
joke of the season. 

And so they might have been except for one 
thing. An hour after they left Lost Creek the 
marshal discovered their escape, and informed 
the correspondent of the Patriot , who rode over 
to Shadetown, where there was a night telegraph 
office, and sent the following dispatch to his 
paper : 

Lost Creek, June 18.— This place is greatly excited over the 


37 


& @irtus § pisotlc. 

arrest and subsequent jail-delivery of two desperate swindlers, 
who came to town this evening with the intention of turning a 
few tricks on the unsuspecting merchants of Lost Creek. The 
men gave their names as James Farrell and J. Williams, and 
posed as agents of a circus that is shortly to exhibit here. By a 
clever piece of detective work, Marshal Thomas Samuels secured 
the most positive evidence against the men, and successfully 
landed them in the calaboose. During the evening the despera- 
does succeeded in escaping through a heavily-barred window. 
It is evident, however, that the escaped prisoners are members 
of an organized gang of crooks, as they could not possibly have 
broken jail without assistance from the outside. A posse of 
citizens will be organized in the morning to scour the woods for 
the convicts, and if caught they will be summarily dealt with. 

The day following their escapade the agents 
remained under cover, waiting for orders. Late 
in the afternoon Williams sauntered down to the 
office. Presently he came running back with a 
copy of the Patriot in his hand. 

“What do you think of that?” he cried, point- 
ing to the “story” from Lost Creek. 

Farrell read it with bulging eyes. Then he 
threw down the paper and looked at Williams. 

“Well, wouldn’t that kill you!” was all he 
could manage to say. 


&tt Sttorigittal Coquette 


I T was common talk among the tepees that 
Singing Bird was a coquette. The old 
squaws grunted their disapproval, and some of 
the young braves had gone so far as to complain 
to her father, the old chief, Patonka-I-Yotanka. 
But Patonka-I-Yotanka could see nothing to 
condemn in the variable moods of Singing Bird, 
who beguiled the young men of the tribe by her 
smiles one day, and drove them to despair by 
her indifference the next. 

“Let her alone,” he would say; “the birds 
are happier for their freedom, and the stream 
that is choked will never sing on its way to the 
big water.” 

If Patonka-I-Yotanka had a favorite for a son 
by adoption through marriage it was Waubliiyo- 
Ta-Ke — the young Sitting Eagle. Among all the 
young men of the tribe he was the most prosper- 
ous. His ponies were the most numerous, his 
hand was the most skillful in drawing the bow ; 
he could even throw the tomahawk with a deadly 
cunning that would have made him a war-chief 


39 


S n J 'boriginal §oqucttc. 

in the old days of the Dakotahs ; and, despite 
the degeneration of the red man and the deca- 
dence of the martial spirit, he could boast of at 
least one scalp-lock, taken from the head of a 
white settler during the outbreak in the Minne- 
sota valley, and only exhibited on rare occasions 
when there was no fear of detection by spying 
paleface eyes. 

With a woman’s perversity, however, the 
choice of the Singing Bird fell upon Yellow 
Crow, the most erratic young man in the 
village. He had neither ponies nor prospective 
ponies ; he had never tried to make a trade with 
the white men at the agency without getting the 
worst of the deal ; there was no scalp in his te- 
pee, and his rifle never found any prize of fowl 
or beast for the tepee of his old parents. 

But Yellow Crow was handsome. His limbs 
were strong and sinewy ; his eyes were mild and 
kind like those of the good Manitou when he is 
pleased with his people ; his glossy hair was 
beaded with dazzling, vari-colored beads, and 
even his blanket could not hide the breadth of 
his shoulders and the fullness of his powerful 
chest. 

When Yellow Crow courted her, Singing Bird’s 
heart quivered, and her breath came fast, but 
she laughed at him nevertheless, and he would 
go away perplexed, not knowing he had found 
favor in her eyes. 


4o 


In the old days Indian maidens had been 
wooed and won under the watchful eyes of the 
wrinkled squaws, or more frequently bartered in 
marriage to the young brave who could offer the 
most ponies or skins for the girl of his desire ; 
but the ancient customs were passing away. 
There was something else to be considered be- 
sides ponies, and hides, and beaded gewgaws. 
There was the maiden’s heart, and that could no 
longer be bartered away against her will. 

Of the Singing Bird’s admirers, Sitting Eagle 
was the most persistent wooer. When he went 
into the forest with his rifle the wild fowl seemed 
to be guided across his way and the rabbits stood 
in his path. Half of what he brought down was 
laid at the tepeo of the old chief, Patonka-I-Yo- 
tanka, and the Singing Bird did not need to be 
told that the present was for her. When the 
white men from the agency came to visit the old 
chief, Singing Bird jested with them and waited 
upon them like a squaw in the tepee of a red 
man. Then Sitting Eagle stood apart with a 
fierce look in his eyes and a dark frown on his 
heavy face. What right had she to smile on the 
white men when it was written she was to be the 
squaw of Sitting Eagle? Of Yellow Crow he 
never thought. That Singing Bird might look 
with favor upon such a worthless brave did not 
cross his mind. She was the daughter of a 
chief. She would go only to the tepee of a chief. 


41 


J 'n J 'boriginat §oqucHc. 

Sitting Eagle did not know the real meaning 
of jealousy until the Black Bear came back to 
the reservation. Sergeant Black Bear, as they 
called him at the Indian school where he had gone 
to study the ways of civilization, had learned to 
read and write the white man’s characters ; he 
had acquired the soldier’s manual of arms, and 
as a member of the school brass band he had 
mastered the intricacies of the cornet. He re- 
turned to the reservation with his cornet, with a 
certificate of good character, and an innate 
contempt for his semi-barbarous people. 

Sergeant Black Bear’s natty uniform of army 
blue, with its brass buttons, had a powerful 
fascination for the Singing Bird. Even the 
strange music of the cornet had a temporary 
charm for her. And Black Bear was also sus- 
ceptible. He joined the ranks of her admirers. 

Sitting Eagle was furious. He watched the 
Black Bear going to and coming from Patonka- 
I-Yotanka’s tepee, with lowering looks. When 
he saw his new rival and the Singing Bird in 
company, his hand would seek his belt, though 
there was no knife in it, and he would think of 
the scalp hidden away in his father’s tepee. 
He despised the white man and the white man’s 
ways, and he felt the deepest contempt for any 
Indian who copied the customs of the palefaces. 
Black Bear’s government clothing and civilized 
airs intensified the hatred he felt for his rival . 


4a 


Hales by the ffity. 

When they met he taunted him about them. 
“Black Bear went away a red man,” he said. 
“He comes back a white face. He no longer 
belongs to his people.” 

“Black Bear is an Indian,” was the reply. “He 
is proud of it. But he has learned much. He 
knows that the only way for the red man to save 
his people is to have them live as the white man 
lives.” 

“Black Bear talks like the wind. There are 
lies in his mouth. He is a white man’s squaw 
man.” 

The Black Bear’s eyes gleamed. 

“Why do you tell me all this?” he asked. 

“Because it makes my heart bad to see the 
Black Bear growing away from his people. The 
old chiefs need their young men.” 

The ominous fire in Black Bear’s eyes deep- 
ened. 

“Lies come easily to the Sitting Eagle’s 
tongue,” he said, sneeringly. “The Sitting Eagle 
cares nothing for his people. The Black Bear 
comes between him and the eyes of the Singing 
Bird!” 

Neither brave was armed, but in the fading 
light they instinctively clinched. The voice of 
Singing Bird broke in upon them. She was 
laughing — the same merry laugh that charmed 
and exasperated all her lovers. The clasp of 
the angry rivals relaxed. Sitting Eagle turned, 


43 


J 'n Aboriginal §oquelte. 

and, without a word, strode into the forest. 

“You were going to fight,” said the girl, ap- 
proaching Black Bear. 

He nodded assent. 

“Why?” 

“For you.” 

She elevated her eyebrows, and laughed again. 

“That’s what a couple of white men did, but 
the Singing Bird was not for the tepee of a pale- 
face. One went to the happy hunting grounds 
— the other is in the guard-house down at the 
agency.” 

“Black Bear will kill the Sitting Eagle, but 
he will never go to the white man’s jail for it,” 
he retorted, fiercely. 

There was a tantalizing expression on the 
girl’s face. 

“The Sitting Eagle says you are a white man’s 
squaw man,” she murmured. 

“Do you believe that?” 

“How should I know?” 

Black Bear swore one of the white man’s 
oaths. 

“The Singing Bird shall see!” he cried, and 
abruptly leaving her, he followed his rival into 
the woods. 

Singing Bird stood watching him until his re- 
ceding form was lost among the trees. Then she 
thoughtfully went back to Patonka-I-Yotanka’s 
tepee. 


44 


§ule.H hj the $$;w. 

Before Black Bear had gone far, he remem- 
bered that neither he nor his rival was armed. 
Quickly retracing his steps to the village, he 
crawled through the narrow opening into his 
father’s tepee. The moon was coming up, and 
when he emerged again the light glinted on the 
polished steel of a pair of long, sharp knives. 

“The Sitting Eagle shall have one of them,” 
he muttered, as he took the trail into the woods 
again. 

The Black Bear had not forgotten his wood- 
craft, and he experienced no difficulty in tracing 
his contemptuous rival. He found him a mile 
from the village, his wrath still uncooled, and 
on his way back to his tepee. 

“The Black Bear seeks me?” Sitting Eagle 
said, recognizing the other in the moonlight. 

“I came to find you,” was the reply. “The 
Sitting Eagle must take back the words of his 
mouth, or fight.” 

“What is spoken is spoken. The Sitting Eagle 
will make his words true.” 

“Let it be so, then,” said Black Bear, holding 
out the knives. “They are alike. Choose.” 

Sitting Eagle took one of the blades, and in- 
spected it in the moonlight. 

“It will do to kill the white man’s squaw 
man,” he said. 

“And mine will do to rid the Singing Bird of 
a weasel,” retorted Black Bear. 


45 


S n $borigiml §oqmttc. 

For a moment the rivals warily eyed each 
other. Then, with a fierce whoop, Sitting Eagle 
sprang at his antagonist, and aimed a blow at 
his breast. The wiry Black Bear caught the 
descending wrist, and held it in a vise-like grip. 
His own knife hand was seized by his muscular 
enemy. Pantingly, they struggled in the long 
grass — forward — backward — sometimes on their 
knees — sometimes rolling over and over in their 
fierce battle for the mastery. 

Presently, as they struggled out of the woods, 
the grass gave way to a smooth flooring of stone, 
and the murmur of a stream could be heard in 
the hollow below them. 

And now Sitting Eagle’s brawn and endurence 
began to tell upon his antagonist. Black Bear’s 
breath came in spasmodic gasps, and the clasp 
of his fingers wavered. With a final effort Sit- 
ting Eagle broke away, and then, quick as a 
mountain lion, sprang at his prostrate rival. 

In another moment the sharp steel would have 
sunk into Black Bear’s heart. A wild cry ar- 
rested the slayer’s hand. He looked up and saw 
the form of Singing Bird in the moonlight. 

“Don’t strike!” she cried. “Would you have 
the curse of the Manitou upon you? Know you 
not you are on the *sacred stone?” 


* Pipestone, Minn. In the old wars between the Sioux and 
Crows, if either party was defeated, and could reach the sacred 
red stone, it was safe from attack so long as it remained there. 


46 


§alen bn the fgfrg. 

A look of awe came into Sitting Eagle’s face. 
He glanced around fearfully. 

“The Singing Bird speaks true,” he said. “It 
is the place of the red stone.” 

“The stone dyed with the blood of a god who 
gave his life for our people when the world was 
young,” whispered the girl. 

Black Bear lay upon the stone. Sitting Eagle 
regarded him with the awe still in his eyes. 

“Come,” he said, “I cannot kill you here. It 
is not good to make our people suffer for us.” 

Black Bear tried to rise, but stumbled, and 
fell sprawling. 

“The words of my mouth were true,” Sitting 
Eagle exclaimed, contemptuously. “He is a 
white man’s squaw man!” 

The taunt aroused the fallen Indian. He 
struggled to his feet. The knife was still in his 
hand, and he pointed with it toward the trees. 

“Go on,” he said ; “the Black Bear will fol- 
low. He will die fighting for the girl he hoped 
to make his squaw.” 

Sitting Eagle started away. Singing Bird 
stopped him. 

“Stay,” she said, “stay a little, until I come 
back.” 

The rivals paused, and the girl darted away. 
Several minutes passed. Sitting Eagle was be- 
coming impatient. 

“She is playing with us,” he said. 


47 


<M n & 'barigtital §oqmttc. 

Just then the sound of hoofs came to their 
ears. A moment later a couple of ponies bounded 
into the clearing. One carried Singing Bird ; 
the other bore the familiar form of Yellow Crow. 

The rivals gave a spontaneous cry of surprise. 

‘‘You need n’t fight any more,” called the girl 
across the open space, as they reined up the 
ponies ; “the tepee of neither the Sitting Eagle 
nor the Black Bear is fit for the Singing Bird.” 

With an angry movement, Sitting Eagle 
started toward the girl. Yellow Crow raised his 
rifle. 

“Stop!” he cried, “the Yellow Crow will pro- 
tect his squaw!” 

Sitting Eagle paused. 

“His squaw?” he faltered. 

The girl laughed merrily. 

“Yes,” she cried, “I go to the Yellow Crow’s 
tepee.” 

As she spoke, her pony turned and dashed in- 
to the woods. Yellow Crow followed. 

Sitting Eagle turned to Black Bear. 

“We are both squaw men,” he said, moodily. 

Then he stalked away toward the village, with 
Black Bear trailing close behind. 


E\ )t Host ©reek ©latnt 


J OHN AUKER brought his wife out to Penn- 
sylvania in the forties, and settled in Lost 
Creek valley. He paid half cash for a couple 
of hundred acres in the valley, and gave ten 
notes, one to mature each successive year, at 
eight per cent., for the balance. It was a wild 
country in those days — sparsely settled, and a 
long distance from any market, but by hard 
work and self-denial Auker was saved the mor- 
tification of defaulting in his annual payments to 
Col. Hamilton, the speculator from whom he 
had purchased the land. 

Once a year Col. Hamilton came to the Auker 
place in Lost Creek valley to collect the money 
due him, and it was always ready. One year he 
failed to come, but the money was laid aside for 
him. When a second year passed without the 
reappearance of the Colonel, Auker wrote to his 
creditor for an explanation, but received no re- 
ply. He finally concluded that Hamilton had 
gone abroad, and the new instalment was laid 
away with the former one, pending his return. 


The Aukers had but one child. Gretchen was 
in her seventh year when they came to Lost 
Creek, and she grew up sprightly and strong, 
and sweet-faced withal, in the free air of the 
mountain-framed valley. Gretchen was John 
Auker’s idol. He worked and slaved and denied 
himself for her. So did her mother. But Mrs. 
Auker was not physically constituted to endure 
the hardships of farm life in a new country. She 
sickened and died in the midst of their struggles 
and privations. 

Thenceforth John Auker worked and schemed 
only for Gretchen. For her sake he wanted to 
be well-to-do. When five years passed, and 
there was no word from Hamilton, a great tempt- 
ation came to him. He was urged to invest in 
mining stocks. The inducement was strong. 
The money saved for Hamilton was lying idle, 
and the prospectus of the mining company glow- 
ingly painted the certainty of quadrupling the 
money invested. 

Auker took the chance ; the company col- 
lapsed, and he came out of the venture practi- 
cally penniless. The fear that Hamilton would 
return and demand his money prayed upon his 
mind. In his perplexity he platted his land and 
sold it off in building lots. None of the simple- 
minded purchasers took the trouble to look up 
the records, and they had no suspicion that 
Auker did not have a clear title to the land. He 


5o 


gates bo the |§<(£. 

netted more than sufficient to liquidate his in- 
debtedness in the event of Hamilton’s reappear- 
ance. When ten years had passed ; when the 
quiet valley had become a thriving village, and 
Hamilton’s absence was still a mystery, the min- 
ing company was reorganized. The declaration 
was authorized that new discoveries in coal and 
ore had been made, and that with new machin- 
ery the property could be placed upon an im- 
mensely profitable basis. Once more Auker 
invested every dollar he could secure, and again 
the venture collapsed. 

In the midst of the worriment consequent up- 
on his loss, Hamilton’s son appeared. Auker 
had no difficulty in recognizing Newton Hamil- 
ton’s likeness to his father. Young Hamilton 
informed him that the Colonel had died in Eng- 
land, and as one of the heirs, as well as executor 
for his father’s estate, he demanded the balance 
due on the Lost Creek property. 

Auker’s confession of his unfortunate specu- 
lation and his inability to either pay the money 
or to relinquish the land, was listened to by the 
young creditor with rapidly-growing anger. 
When he had concluded, Hamilton accused him 
of duplicity, and threatened to bring suit for dis- 
possession against the unsuspecting villagers. 
Ever since the founding of the village Auker 
had been its burgess. He was proud of his good 
name, and the respect of his neighbors was dear 


IP/* l£ost <£rcck plaint. s. 

to him. Besides, the thought that Gretchen 
would discover his weakness was maddening. 
Suddenly, losing control of himself, he seized a 
heavy hickory cane, and springing upon the 
surprised young man, brought the weapon down 
upon his head with crushing force. He remem- 
bered the look of mortal fear on Hamilton’s face 
— the inarticulate cry for help — and then all was 
blank. When intelligence returned he was in 
his own room, propped-up in bed, and he was 
told that he had been delirious for many days. 

Gretchen was a patient and never-tiring nurse. 
Under her care he gradually improved. In six 
weeks he was able to be around again, though 
greatly shattered, mentally and physically. The 
thing that militated against his complete re- 
covery was the memory of his encounter with 
young Hamilton. The scene was always before 
him. He did not doubt that he had killed him ; 
but what had become of his body? This was an 
inexplicable mystery. He studied Gretchen’s 
face, and questioned her as closely as he dared, 
but she answered guilelessly, and it was evident 
that she knew nothing of the young man or of 
his mysterious disappearance. 

Remorse, coupled with the constant fear of 
detection, made the burgess’ life a torture. 
The thought of Gretchen alone prevented him 
from ending his miserable existence. He knew 
there were other heirs of the Hamilton estate, 


52 


§aks by the fgfrg. 

and the constant dread of their appearance 
added to his agitation. The thought of what 
would become of Gretchen when the inevitable 
exposure came, haunted him night and day. 
Just beyond the Black Shade mountain there 
was a strip of woodland which he still owned, 
and to which he had an unclouded title. It was 
worth but little, but he determined that Gretchen 
should at least have that between her and abso- 
lute want. He took advantage of her birthday 
to transfer the property to her. Gretchen had 
invited a party of young folks to spend the after- 
noon with her, and as the evening shadows were 
falling, the lawyer came, with the papers drawn 
up and ready to sign. 

The lawyer sat at the table, and the burgess 
stood near by, with his face toward the door. 
Gretchen and her young friends formed a circle 
around the table, wondering what was about to 
transpire. The burgess had not spoken to 
Gretchen concerning the gift. He wanted to 
surprise her. Now he said : 

“I wanted to give you a birthday present, 
Gretchen ; and I had Mr. Hennig come over, so 
that everything would be done in a proper and 
legal way.” 

Gretchen looked half-frightened. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “It isn’t any- 
thing very much — only a piece of land I wanted 


to put in your name, and I thought your birth- 
day would be a good time for it.” 

Gretchen threw her arms around her father’s 
neck, and kissed him. 

“You’re the best father in the world,” she 
said. 

At this point Lawyer Hennig interposed im- 
patiently. 

“If you’re ready, Mr. Burgess,” he said, “you 
can sign the deed now.” 

The name and face of Newton Hamilton was 
seldom out of the burgess’ mind, and that day 
they had haunted him with torturing persistency. 
He was thinking of Hamilton as he sat down to 
write. In the semi-gloom he could scarcely dis- 
tinguish what he had written. 

“There, Mr. Hennig,” he said, as he nervously 
pushed the deed toward the lawyer — “there; 
it’s signed.” 

Lawyer Hennig took up the paper, and rap- 
idly ran his eyes over it until they rested upon 
the name the burgess had just inscribed. Then 
a look of surprise came into his face. 

“Why, Burgess,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t 
your signature!” 

“Not my signature?” faltered the burgess. 

“No — you’ve written ‘Newton Hamilton’ as 
plain as can be! Now, who on earth is Newton 
Hamilton?” 

With a startled cry the burgess reached over 


54 


pities bn the Zffng. 

and snatched the paper from the lawyer’s hands, 
and then, with nervous eagerness, began to tear 
the document into fragments. 

The young people drew back, frightened, and 
the lawyer, leaning over, with surprise and con- 
sternation pictured in his face, exclaimed : 

“What’s the matter, Burgess? What are you 
tearing up the deed for?” 

At that moment the door leading in from the 
street opened. It was now quite dark in the 
room, but, outside, a street lamp threw a long 
ray of light across the portal. As the door 
opened the lamplight streamed full upon the 
figure of a man standing on the step, immovable, 
but with his eyes seemingly turned toward the 
burgess. The shadows that mingled with the 
flickering light gave an uncanny aspect to the 
motionless form, and every eye was turned ap- 
prehensively toward the door. 

The burgess cast a searching look at the white 
face. It was that of the missing claimant. 

“It is the ghost of Newton Hamilton!” he 
cried ; and then fell fainting to the floor. 


The illness that followed was not so prolonged 
as the first attack. When the burgess came to 
himself, and discovered that it was no super- 
natural visitor, but real flesh and blood, that 
stood in the doorway that night, it hastened his 
recovery. 


55 


The claimant domiciled himself in the village 
and waited until the burgess was able to see 
him. Naturally, Auker’s strange actions had 
excited the curiosity of the villagers, and set the 
tongues of the gossip-mongers wagging. The 
unknown visitor was eyed with ever-increasing 
speculation, and every effort was made to dis- 
cover what there was in his appearance to throw 
the burgess into such a critical mental condition ; 
but so far the stranger had kept his own counsel. 

When the burgess had become fairly strong, 
the young man came to see him. 

“You are Newton Hamilton,” the burgess said, 
and he was about to express his regret for all 
that had happened, but the visitor interrupted 
him. 

“You are mistaken,” he declared — “I am not 
Newton Hamilton, but his brother.” 

The burgess’ heart sank. He could not speak, 
and silently motioned the visitor to be seated. 

“You know, of course, what I am here for,” 
continued Hamilton. “Several weeks ago my 
brother left home to visit you and to secure pay- 
ment for the land you purchased from our 
father. I know he came here, for he wrote me 
of his arrival. Since that time I have neither 
seen him nor heard any news of him.” 

The visitor paused, and then, looking into the 
burgess’ eyes, asked sternly : 

“Mr. Auker, where is my brother?” 


That was a terrible moment for the burgess. 
The truth came to his lips, and then — he lied. 

“I paid him, and — and — he went away,” he 
faltered. 

“Then there must be some record of the 
transaction.” 

“No, no!” exclaimed the burgess, hastily ; 
“there is no record. I paid him the money and 
received the notes, and that’s all there was to it.” 

“And the notes — what became of them?” 

“They — they were destroyed.” 

Hamilton took several papers from his pocket 
and held them up. 

“That is untrue,” said he. “Here are the 
notes. They were never in Newton’s possession.” 

The burgess’ head reeled. 

“Well,” he asked, faintly, “what are you go- 
ing to do about it?” 

“Secure the property or its value, and learn 
what you have done with my brother,” was the 
answer. 

The burgess despairingly bowed his head, and 
Hamilton left the room. That night the fever 
returned, and for a fortnight the burgess lay, 
weakly hovering between life and death. But 
once more he rallied, and one day Gretchen and 
a neighbor helped him downstairs, and into the 
front room, where he could see the farmers’ 
teams through the low window, and watch the 
people moving about in the village street. 


Some of the neighbors saw him sitting in the 
window-place, and the news spread throughout 
the village that the burgess was able to be about 
again. In a few minutes a crowd of old resi- 
dents gathered in front of the house. There was 
a hard and unsympathetic air about them, and 
when the burgess looked through the window 
and nodded to two or three of his old friends, 
they turned away their heads. 

After a few minutes, apparently spent in con- 
sultation, one of the burgess’ nearest neighbors 
led the way into the house, and the others fol- 
lowed. The leader opened the door without 
knocking, and they all came in, quietly and re- 
spectfully enough. 

“Mr. Auker,” began the leader and spokes- 
man when they had gathered around the burgess, 
“we’ve found out all about your transactions, 
and that you never had a title to the land you 
sold us. We had so much confidence in you, 
Burgess, that none of us ever thought to have 
the title examined ; and even now we would n’t 
believe there was anything wrong if we had n’t 
seen the proof. Now, we don’t want to be 
turned out of our homes, and there are only a 
few of us who can afford the expense of a law- 
suit ; and so we have come to you, to ask you 
to do what is right with us and with this man, 
Hamilton.” 

That was a moment of bitter trial for the bur- 


58 


gess. How he wished, with all his heart, that 
he had never been so weak as to speculate with 
Hamilton's money, even for Gretchen’s sake. As 
he looked into the faces of his neighbors, all of 
whom he loved and respected, his heart sank, 
and the words died unspoken on his trembling 
lips. 

“Have you nothing to say to us, Burgess?” 
persisted the spokesman. 

“Ah, my friends, what can I say to you?” the 
burgess finally faltered. “I am a poor man — 
poorer than any of you. I would make restitu- 
tion if I could ; but it is impossible. I have n’t 
twenty dollars in the world.” 

A murmur of anger arose from the crowd. A 
dozen excited voices began to upbraid him. 

The burgess bowed his head with shame. 

“Say what you like, friends — say what you 
like,” he murmured ; “you cannot say anything 
too bad. The worst you can say is not half bad 
enough. I am a liar — a thief — but that — that is 
not all ” 

At that moment Gretchen’s face came before 
him. Was it not enough that he should 
make her a pauper — that she should blush for 
the dishonesty of her father? Did justice de- 
mand that he should tell it all? Would there 
be any peace for him until he had unburdened 
his soul of the guilt that pressed so heavily up- 
on it? Yes, he would speak — whatever the con- 


sequences he would tell the whole guilty truth. 
Even Gretchen would forgive him when she 
knew he had sinned for her. 

“Friends, let me tell you all!” he cried. “I 
am worse than a thief — worse than anything you 
can think or imagine of me. I ” 

The burgess’ voice sank to a hoarse whisper. 

“ 1 am a murderer!” 

The crowd shrank back with horror. 

“It is true,” he continued, brokenly, “the man 
you have respected and honored — the man you 
have looked up to as a friend and counsellor — 
the one who has served you all these years as 
your burgess — who has spent his best years 
among you in this quiet valley, in the shadow of 
these dear old mountains — that man is a mur- 
derer — a wretched, guilty murderer!” 

The burgess’ voice failed, and, exhausted, he 
fell back in the chair. A deep hush fell upon 
the crowd. They thought the burgess was be- 
reft of reason. 

Presently he revived. 

“It is true,” he continued, “all true — every 
word of it.” 

The burgess paused, and nervously pushed 
the hair back from his eyes. When he spoke 
again, it was with humble resignation. 

“And now,” he said, “I can’t be your burgess 
any more. I have transgressed the law, and 
must suffer for it. Here I am, Marshal Tom — 


6o 


I see you back there. Don’t be afraid — I won’t 
resist you. Lock me up like any other criminal. 
I don’t deserve any mercy. I brought it on my- 
self.” 

The marshal stepped forward, and laid his 
hand on the burgess’ arm. Then he drew back. 
There were tears in his eyes. 

“I can’t do it, Burgess — I can’t do it. You’ve 
always been a good friend to me.” 

“You must ; it’s your duty.” 

“But there’s no proof against you — nothing 
but your own statement. We don’t even know 
the man’s name.” 

While the marshal was speaking, the crowd 
opened a little, and looking through the burgess 
saw Hamilton. Pointing his finger at the young 
claimant, he cried : 

“He was that man’s brother!” 

A murmur of astonishment swept over the 
crowd as the claimant stepped forth and faced 
the burgess. 

“Mr. Auker,” he exclaimed, “look at me? 
Who am I?” 

“Newton Hamilton’s brother.” 

“You are mistaken. What I told you was a lie!” 

“Then, in heaven’s name, who are you?” 

“The man you thought you killed — Newton 
Hamilton.” 

The burgess clasped his hands, and burst into 
tears. 


§l(e g " ost §reeh §him. 61 

‘ ‘Thank God — thank God !” he cried, excitedly. 

“After your attack,” continued Hamilton, 
“you ran away, and I fainted. In a little while 
I recovered consciousness, but I was terribly 
weak and ill. Dazed, and scarcely knowing 
what I did, I left the house, and found my way 
over to the hotel without attracting any atten- 
tion. The next morning, without telling any 
one of the assault, I took the stage for Shade- 
town. There I was seized with a raging fever, 
as a result of the blow you gave me, and it was 
several weeks before I was on my feet again. 
Then I made up my mind to deceive you, and by 
working upon your fears, compel you to raise 
the money. I came back, as you know, and 
pretended to be Newton Hamilton’s brother. 
My heart was filled with a desire for revenge. 
I wanted to humiliate you, as well as to make 
you settle your indebtedness. Then I met your 
daughter, Mr. Auker, and like a sunbeam she 
stole into my heart and drove away all the evil 
thoughts. I no longer want revenge — I no lon- 
ger want the land you sold ; with all my heart I 
forgive you! But I want your daughter, Mr. 
Auker — I want Gretchen. Won’t you give her 
to me?” 

“Where is Gretchen?” asked the burgess. 

There was a cry at the door, and Gretchen 
came running in, her hair flying, her eyes filled 
with fear. 


6a 


“Father — daddy!” she cried; “what is the 
matter? What are all the neighbors doing here? 
Has anything happened?” 

He took her in his arms, and stroked back her 
hair, and said, soothingly : 

“Nothing, dear — nothing that you need worry 
about.” 

Then he pointed toward Hamilton, and said : 

“Do you know that man, Gretchen?” 

She drooped her head, and blushed crimson. 

“Don’t be afraid to tell me. Do you know 
him?” 

“Yes, father,” she answered, faintly. 

“And do you love him?” 

The blushes deepened, and her breath came 
quickly as she murmured : 

“Yes, father.” 

“Then go to him.” 

Gretchen looked at the burgess for a moment. 
There was no anger in his eyes — she could see 
that — nothing but love and infinite tenderness. 
She stooped down and kissed him. Then, bash- 
fully gliding over to Hamilton, she caught his 
arms, and drew them protectingly about her. 

“Newton Hamilton,” said the burgess, “take 
her ; she is yours. God grant you may be a 
good husband to her!” 


& Jflasqueratre. 


I T WAS a fortnight after the ball of the Mus- 
keteers before the Chevalier de Monserrat 
and his comrade-in-arms, Capt. Emile L’Hom- 
medieu, met. The Chevalier had just returned 
from Normandy, after a brief sojourn with his 
mother, Mme. de Monserrat, with his wallet 
well-lined with the largesse of his doting parent, 
and with a sense of filial obligations dutifully 
performed. 

Capt. L’Hommedieu’s untidy appearance and 
melancholy visage forced from the Chevalier an 
ejaculation of astonishment. 

“Mon Dieu, man, what ails thee? Been gam- 
ing, and bonded thy hopes of heaven to the Jews? 
Cheer up, mon ami, cheer up. Here’s gold, and 
plenty of it to spare for the succoring of an old 
comrade!” 

As he spoke, the Chevalier significantly 
slapped his wallet with one hand, while he con- 
fidingly rested the other on the shoulder of his 
friend. 

L’Hommedieu drew back with a gesture of 
resentment. 


64 


btj the %jjjjng. 

“Saints! Were thou an apothecary thou 
wouldst prescribe gold as a cure-all!” 

“’Tis worse than I thought ; an affair of the 
heart. Thou hast been playing the devil with 
Cupid again. Inconstant! I thought thou hadst 
pledged thy troth to the lovely Mile. Brunetierre. 
The best match in Paris — and a royal dowry ; 
and thou, like a fledgeling on his first holiday, 
must dazzle thy senses with another pretty face! 
By St. Louis, I’ll take Mademoiselle off thy 
hands, and call it a fair return for the good fel- 
lowship I offer thee.” 

L’Hommedieu’s face flushed haughtily, and 
he turned upon his heel. 

“Thy bray offends me ; I’ll seek for more con- 
genial company!” he exclaimed, striding away, 
and leaving the Chevalier dumbfounded by his 
ill-tempered departure. 

De Monserrat’s face crimsoned, and with an 
angry movement he laid his hand upon his 
rapier. 

“And thy tongue will get thy head in trouble 
unless it speedily mend its ways!” he called after 
the retreating Musketeer. 

In a moment De Monserrat’s habitual good- 
nature reasserted itself. 

“Poor devil!” he exclaimed ; “it must indeed 
be a serious affair that can make an old comrade 
act so churlishly!” 

The Chevalier’s brain was still busy, trying to 


65 


& JQluaqtmxdc. 

solve the mystery of L’Hommedieu’s distemper, 
when he arrived at the villa of Mile. Marchand. 
Indeed, Mademoiselle, with the intuitive per- 
ception of her sex, noticed his preoccupation, 
and questioned him concerning it. He related 
the incident of his meeting with L’Hommedieu, 
and the abrupt way in which it had terminated. 

“Ah, poor Captain!” she laughed. “Is it really 
possible that in these prosaic times cavaliers 
grieve for the smiles their lady-loves deny? I 
thought all male creation — especially here in 
Paris — was blase.” 

“’Tis thou, then, who hath the key to L’- 
Hommedieu’s affliction?” 

“Why, ’tis simple enough ; thou must have 
been blind not to have discovered it for thyself.” 

“Thou must remember I have just returned 
from Normandy,” he remonstrated. 

“True enough ; that absolves thee. But thou 
was at the ball of the Musketeers?” 

“Yes — and a gay rout it was!” 

“Very,” responded Mademoiselle, drily. Then 
she added : “The ball was the occasion of Mon- 
sieur, the Captain’s, misfortune. Thou must 
surely recall a young woman, attired in the cos- 
tume of an Andalusian peasant, for the honor of 
whose unmasking a score of gay Musketeers 
contended with indifferent success?” 

“Why — yes, I do remember such a one among 
the masqueraders : a slight, graceful creature, 


66 


§aks bg the $j$ag. 

with hair, black as ebony, coiled over the most 
ravishing of olive-tinted necks and almost hid- 
den under a mantilla of Valenciennes lace ; 
small hands, and a dainty figure — not too youth- 
ful, and yet lacking the development of maturity; 
a carriage ” 

“Oh, I see thou didst notice her,” interrupted 
Mademoiselle. “I had not thought one so pro- 
fessedly indifferent to women could have made 
so complete an inventory. The Captain was an- 
other who did not permit the charms of the 
Andalusian to escape his admiring eyes. In the 
fervor of his flirtation, he neglected his fiancee, 
Mile. Brunetierre, until, insulted and mortified, 
she went home in a fury of virtuous indignation, 
leaving the Captain free to continue his attack 
upon the Andalusian. The next day Mademoi- 
selle’s maid deposited a packet at the door of 
Monsieur, the Captain. It contained his letters 
to the Brunetierre, together with sundry fervent 
verses he had dedicated to her perfections, and 
half a peddler’s supply of gewgaws and baubles 
he had picked up for her in his campaigns. 
Moreover, she has refused to see him, despite 
his most persistent supplications, by letter, for 
forgiveness and a reconciliation ; and he goes 
about, morose and disconsolate, finding no 
pleasure in life, and ” 

“ Picking quarrels with his best friend!*’ 

“So thou hast said.” 


67 


& Masquerade. 

“Thou must have had the story from Brune- 
tierre herself. Thou was not at the ball.” 

“Be not too sure of that.” 

“Why,” hesitatingly, “I was at the unmask- 
ing, and hadst thou been there I surely would 
have discovered thee.” 

“Canst thou swear thou didst see all the dan- 
cers unmasked?” 

“Why, now I think about it, when the hour 
for unmasking arrived the Andalusian had mys- 
teriously disappeared — no one knew where.” 

Mile. Marchand laughed gleefully. 

“It was a rich experience — and a new one,” 
she exclaimed. “As a Spanish peasant girl, 
hidden behind a mask, I had more Musketeers 
at my feet in one night than I could hope to in- 
fatuate in a lifetime in my own person.” 

“Then, thou ” 

“Had the Andalusian stayed for the unmask- 
ing thou wouldst have known for a certainty 
whether or not I was at the ball.” 

“’Twas a marvelous disguise,” murmured the 
Chevalier. 

“Yes ; thou didst not know how comely I was 
until my face was masked — nor the Captain, 
either. Saints! if Brunetierre but knew half the 
things L’Hommedieu whispered into my ear that 
night she’d never forgive him. And it begins to 
look as though there were no forgiveness for the 
Captain in any event, unless ” 


68 Ha/w bn the fffeg. 

“Ah, a plot.” 

“ Unless,” continued Mile. Marchand, 

disregarding the interruption, “we can make the 
Brunetierre believe it was all a trick, and that 
the fascinating Andalusian maid was not a maid 
at all.” 

“Thou wilt confess the imposture?” 

“Stupid! That would but complicate the sit- 
uation and win me Mademoiselle’s everlasting 
enmity. No, no ; I can weave a better plot than 
that! I can count upon thy loyalty?” 

“I was never more Mademoiselle’s slave than 
now,” answered the Chevalier gallantly, seizing 
the lady’s hands and alternately pressing them 
to his lips — an attack that was rewarded by a 
not too gentle rap upon the ears. 

“Thy part of the plot,” continued Mile. Mar- 
chand, “will be simple. Thou must see Capt. 
L’Hommedieu again, and ” 

“ Run the risk of being run through for 

meddling in his love affairs!” broke in the Chev- 
alier. 

“A moment since thou was my slave — and 
now thou dost object to being spit on the point 
of a rapier for thy mistress.” 

“Well, rapier or no rapier, I’ll do thy bid- 
ding.” 

“Now art thou speaking like a true gallant — 
and one who would risk his head to aid a woman 
ease her conscience.” 


& Masquerade. w 

“I am to see the Captain,” said the Chevalier, 
taking up the thread again ; “what then?” 

“Tell him of the plot, and — ! Stay, thou 
knowest I have a brother?” 

“A twin brother, ’tis said.” 

“A twin brother, as like unto his sister as one 
Dromio is to the other in Monsieur Shakespeare’s 
comedy ; so like, that were I to don his clothing, 
and he my draperies, thou wouldst declare that 
he were I, and I he, and wouldst back thy judg- 
ment with thy fortune. Herein lies the kernel 
of my plot ; and, as though the saints favored 
our project, Gaston has only to-day returned 
from Brienne, where he has been entered at the 
military school through the favor of the king. 
Now, this is what thou hast to do : say to the 
Captain that the mysterious Andalusian was 
the twin brother of Mile. Marchand, and that 
the adventure was merely an ill-considered, boy- 
ish escapade. Tell him to insist upon seeing 
Mile. Brunetierre — to force his way into her 
house if necessary — and declare the imposture ; 
insisting, however, that he knew the masquer- 
ader was a boy, and that he courted the pseudo- 
Andalusian simply to test his lady’s love. Should 
the Brunetierre discredit his story and insist up- 
on the proof, let him say that it will be forth- 
coming, and that she need but name the time 
and place for the trial.” 

“And then ?” 


7o 


§nhs bn the fgfe£. 

“Why, the rest is simple. Gaston appears in 
the costume of the Andalusian ; the counterfeit 
presentment is so wonderful, Mademoiselle re- 
fuses to believe that the masquerader is other 
than a woman. Gaston craves permission to 
retire. Presently he returns, devoid of feminine 
draperies, and attired in his own military uni- 
form. Mademoiselle shrieks, falls into the Cap- 
tain’s expectant arms, and prays for pardon ; 
whilst a troubadour, hidden behind the curtains, 
plays a wedding serenade! What think you of 
it?” 

“Magnificent! Had I thy head on my shoul- 
ders I should be a king’s minister!” 

Mile. Marchand smiled graciously. 

“Go, now, and find the Captain,” she said. 

De Monserrat went away with many misgiv- 
ings, notwithstanding his brave show of words. 
He had already tested L’Hommedieu’s temper, 
and while he would not have hesitated to try 
conclusions with an enemy or a rival, the possi- 
bility of an encounter with his friend was far 
from pleasing. It gratified him, when he ran 
into L’Hommedieu, to discover that the Captain 
had recovered from his anger of the morning, 
and was profuse in his apologies for his ill-tem- 
pered conduct. It was, however, a delicate task 
to acquaint him with the “truth” about the An- 
dalusian without wounding his pride. No man 
likes to think that he has whispered words of 


& ^tsijucradc. ii 

love into the ears of a mischievous scamp mas- 
querading in a woman’s petticoats; and the 
Chevalier, with great adroitness, acted upon 
the presumption that the Captain was privy to 
the deception, and knew that the “Andalusian 
maid” was only a pretty boy in skirts. 

“Thy greatest fault,” said De Monserrat, in 
conclusion, “was in not insisting upon an imme- 
diate interview with Mile. Brunetierre, and con- 
fessing the trick.” 

“Twice twenty times have I tried, and twice 
twenty times has she refused to see me,” said 
L’Hommedieu, dolefully. 

“Try again,” persisted the Chevalier, “insist 
— persevere — threaten. Drop a billet-doux at 
her door, warning her that unless she receives 
thee, within four and twenty hours thy bleeding 
body will lie on the selfsame spot. I warrant 
that will soften my lady’s obdurate heart.” 

There was a less hopeless look in L’Homme- 
dieu’s face when the Musketeers parted, and the 
Chevalier went to his quarters with a feeling that 
the reconciliation of the Captain and Mile. 
Brunetierre was more than half accomplished. 
The next day he was occupied with the solici- 
tors on a matter concerning his ancestral estate, 
but the following morning he received a note 
from L’Hommedieu. It recited briefly that, after 
several more ineffectual attempts, Mile. Brune- 
tierre had finally consented to receive him ; that 


72 


§nha bn the 

he had confessed the imposture, and craved for- 
giveness, but that she had insisted upon the 
proof. Now he depended upon De Monserrat 
to complete the reconciliation by reproducing 
the counterfeit Andalusian for Mademoiselle’s 
benefit, with Gaston Marchand in his original 
role. 

The Chevalier took the note to Mile. Mar- 
chand. 

“It is just as I expected,” said Madamoiselle, 
when she had read L’Hommedieu’s appeal. “The 
Brunetierre demands proof, and she shall have 
it — oh,” with a merry laugh, “she shall have it.” 
Then, “Thou wilt see the Captain to-day.” 

“I can.” 

“Arrange to meet him near Mile. Brunetierre’s 
house this evening at early dusk — a little before 
candle-light. I will prepare Gaston for the com- 
edy, and he will meet thee there. Be prompt, 
so that he may not be kept waiting, and run the 
risk of discovery. Under no circumstances con- 
nect me with the affair. I prefer to retain Mile. 
Brunetierre’s friendship. Now go. Be discreet. 
Thou and thy friend can depend upon Gaston.” 


The trim figure, with its graceful, girlish move- 
ments, that Capt. L’Hommedieu and the Chev- 
alier de Monserrat escorted into the boudoir of 
Mile. Brunetierre that evening had nothing con- 
vincingly masculine about it, either in dress or 


$ 4M !ls 1 ue rac1e. n 

contour, and Mademoiselle stubbornly refused to 
be convinced. Moreover, she insisted that she 
was being still further deceived, that the mas- 
querader was a woman, and that nothing could 
satisfy her of L’Hommedieu’s loyalty. 

The pseudo-Andalusian, in a voice that unde- 
niably did betray some masculine quality, inter- 
rupted Madamoiselle’s reproaches by requesting 
permission to retire for a few minutes. Made- 
moiselle hesitated, but finally yielded to the 
solicitation of the Chevalier, who declared that 
in no other way could the matter be fairly put 
to the proof. The masquerader retired, and the 
trio waited with mingled sensations of curiosity 
and expectation for the “Andalusian” to re- 
appear. 

Presently a boyish voice asked : 

“May I come in now?” 

“Come,” cried Mademoiselle, the Captain and 
the Chevalier in chorus. 

The curtain parted, and a youth, dressed in 
the uniform of a lieutenant of artillery, stepped 
forth and saluted. 

Mile. Brunetierre emitted a cry of astonish- 
ment, and turned toward L’Hommedieu. 

“Gaston Marchand!” she faltered. 

L’Hommedieu profited by his lady’s discom- 
fiture to place his arm about her waist ; and, 
drawing her head down to his lips, he began to 
whisper fervently into her ear. 


74 


The Chevalier motioned to Gaston. 

“Come,” he whispered, “let us leave the tur- 
tle-doves to their lovemaking.” 

Neither Mademoiselle nor the Captain noticed 
their departure. 

When they had reached the street, Gaston, 
who had kept his face averted from the Cheva- 
lier, asked : 

“Is there a chair in sight?” 

The Chevalier laughed. 

“What!” he exclaimed, “a chair for a soldier? 
’Tis only a short walk, and we can be with thy 
sister before the end of the hour.” 

“Oh, but I can’t be seen on the street in this 
costume!” 

“Saints, man, what art thou prating of? Are 
soldiers put in the Bastille these days for wear- 
ing the king’s uniform?” 

Gaston began to laugh — not with the roister- 
ing merriment of a boy, but with the exuberance 
of young womanhood. 

“Oh, you simple!” exclaimed the youthful 
soldier ; “and do I deceive even thee — the astute 
Chevalier de Monserrat?” 

The Chevalier stopped, and looked at his 
companion with unfeigned astonishment. 

“Mile. Marchand,” he murmured, presently. 

“Yes,” she responded, gaily. “Thou didst 
not think I was such a goose as to get my brother 
into an affair like this?” 


75 


The Chevalier bowed until the plumes on his 
bonnet almost touched the ground. 

* ‘Mademoiselle is a great actress,” he said; 
“she should be in the king’s company.” 

Then he hailed a chair. 


































































































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